


Darken Me

by Nibeneth (angrymermaids)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: As fluffy as that sort of thing can get, Hand Kisses, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Thangorodrim Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrymermaids/pseuds/Nibeneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On one of his good days, Maitimo airs his grievances with that new horror they call the "sun."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darken Me

Maitimo spoke almost as forcefully as Findekáno remembered from their old life. His face was almost as animated, his gestures adding to the illusion of strength that made today seem like one of his better days.

“I hate the sun,” he said. “It burns my eyes, it burns my skin—the sun is the worst thing that I have ever seen. How could anyone think of it as a replacement for Laurelin and not a grotesque parody?”

“It's not so bad,” Findekáno laughed. He could not recall how they got onto this topic, only that it called to mind treelit nights when they would wander the streets of Tirion, going nowhere in particular, and Maitimo would methodically list the names of every courtier he hated and why he hated them. “It burns the orcs even worse than it burns you. And our crops never grew so high in Beleriand as they have since it first rose.”

“So they keep telling me. But look.” He held up the back of his hand. It was no longer pale—as pale as the light of Telperion, Findekáno thought wistfully. Now it was browned and scarred from direct, beating sunlight, and so intensely freckled that there was barely a freckle-sized patch of light skin between them. “I am as withered as a raisin.”

 _You are still beautiful_ , Findekáno wanted to say, but he abstained. Maitimo flinched away from any and all touches, no matter how gentle and expected. His moods swung violently between depression and panic. This friendly, conversational mood was as fragile as it was rare, and Findekáno did not dare do anything to upset it.

 _Do not assume anything,_ _Findekáno._ _Do not_ _expect or hope_ _that he wants you back in the same way he did before. Be there. But do not get too close_. _And be prepared to step away if he wants you to._

It was his daily, hourly mantra.

“We're just a little closer to matching now,” he said instead, smiling a little weakly, mirroring the gesture with his own hand. It was a bad joke and they both knew it. Findekáno's skin was indeed dark brown, but it was smooth and healthy. The tips of his fingers and toes had suffered frostbite on the Ice, but he was the only one who could tell the difference because they ached fiercely when the weather turned cold. It had kept him awake the past four nights already. He lay curled up with his hands tucked under his arms, hating himself for being in pain when Maitimo had it so much worse.

At least his cousin was able to sit up under his own strength today. Even so, after every hard-earned ounce he'd gained so far, he was still so thin that Findekáno could see his jutting collarbones and the ridges of his throat above his nightshirt. His right shoulder was braced and his arm secured in a sling. He kept tugging on the blanket around his shoulders as if trying to hide the injured limb from view.

It was as good a day as Findekáno had learned to hope for. Maitimo was too weak to do any of the exercises the healers prescribed to rebuild his strength and coordination, but he was lucid and his spirits were up.

“It's still not even close,” he said. Without warning he reached out and took Findekáno's raised hand to examine it. His eyes were still too large and hungry for his face, framed with shadows like unhealed bruises. He must have seen the suppressed shock there—Maitimo hated to be touched, he protested whenever someone had to touch him, he didn't touch back. Findekáno constantly had to remind himself of that. “Is something wrong?” A new crease appeared in his forehead.

“No.” Findekáno shook his head once, a little harder than was normal. “No. What were you saying?”

“We will never 'match.' Your skin has blue tones, and mine has red. See the color of your veins.” His voice was light. Analytical. He turned Findekáno's hand over to where it was lighter. His touch was a torment, but a pleasant one, and Findekáno would not dream of pulling away.

“Why is Russandol so pale?” Findekáno had once asked Grandmother Indis when he was a child. “Is something wrong with him?”

“Of course not!” she laughed and pulled him onto her lap. She was like him and his parents and siblings: dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed. “As Yavanna paints Her flowers in all the colors of the rainbow, so does Ilúvatar create every one of His children. We are all beautiful in all our different ways.”

From that moment, Findekáno decided that his tall, bright Russandol was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Maitimo kept staring at the hand before him. He did not let go, even though this branch of the conversation had come to its natural end. Slowly, he bent his head and pressed his lips to the center of Findekáno's palm. His breath was warm. His fingers were cool.

Findekáno could not breathe, frozen in his chair as he waited for it all to shatter, but Maitimo simply lifted his head a little, paused, and kissed the inside of Findekáno's wrist. Just softly.

Goosebumps rippled up his arm and it took all of his concentration to keep from stroking Maitimo's face as he kissed each finger, each knuckle, and finally kissed his palm again. Findekáno trembled under his touch—so familiar and yet so strange, a relic of a past life he had forced himself not to think about on the Ice. He did not want to mar those memories with the bitterness that had filled him in Araman and grew with each freezing step he took.

_It's over. I'm healing. He's healing. We will heal._

Maitimo laced their fingers together. He glanced up at Findekáno's face, his wide gray eyes searching as if for any objection. Finding none, he lifted the soft brown hand to his bony, roughened cheek, keeping his thin fingers cupped around Findekáno's.

Both of them went utterly still. Findekáno's heart beat fast. Happiness and sadness and fear and love warred in him so violently that he did not know what he would say even if he could force himself to speak. He used to touch his face like this in Aman, but it was easy and frequent and unmarred but no less precious, his fingers slipping into Maitimo's hair—now cropped to his skull—and curling around his neck to pull him down into a kiss.

Maitimo closed his eyes. He leaned into Findekáno's hand. They stayed like that for a long time.

“Is this all right?” Findekáno whispered. Maitimo's fond, amused smile nearly broke his heart.

“I'm the one who started it,” he said. But Findekáno knew he could see the fear and the love written all over his face, and he sighed. “Yes. This is all right. For me. Is it? For you, I mean.” The words tumbled over each other on the way out.

“Yes.” Findekáno let his eyes close in turn. He still did not move. He wanted to believe this moment would last. That Maitimo's mind would remain clear today, tomorrow, every day after. That he would always want to be touched. He knew it wouldn't be so easy.

But this was progress. They were healing.

“Mm.” Maitimo squeezed his fingers a little. “Your hand is soft.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8zY-tAaogM)


End file.
